A Steady Progression
by Lily Valley
Summary: Hiruma's reputation didn't change much from high school to university.


**Disclaimer: **I do not own Eyeshield 21. This piece of fiction is merely meant for fun, not profit. (I also don't own the _Iliad _or _Pinocchio._)

**A/N: **This popped into my head and sat there for a good six hours before I managed to have enough time to put it down. I didn't pause until I got to the end, and even then I only did minimal editing. It's very rare that I write something I'm so instantly pleased with. I'm sure there are some things that would normally bother me, but I've been really busy lately, so it's all slipping under my radar.  
This is my first official venture into ES21 territory, so any opinions are welcome and appreciated. Just please don't mention the lack of profanity. Hiruma's calm in this, and it seems to me that he lays off a little when he's laid back. (And I just hate English profanity anyway.)

* * *

Hiruma Youichi's reputation barely changed from high school to university. On the rare occasion that he bothered to show up to classes, he kept the rest of the student body cowering in fear. His teachers weren't as openly terrified as the Deimon ones had been, but they knew better than to cross him and he was confident that they wouldn't cause problems. They had too much to lose.

He was still playing football, though not from the immediate captaincy he'd acquired in junior high and high school. No, now he was enjoying the much more entertaining position as team trouble-maker. It helped that, unlike most tricksters, he had the firepower and demeanor to get away with his mischief. He really did get a thrill from the looks of sheer horror on the upperclassmen's faces whenever he walked into the changing rooms.

It bears mentioning that Hiruma hadn't _needed _to go to college; he'd _wanted_ to. There was just something about being the underdog—the conniving student to a particularly unfair teacher, for example—that made him content. He could've been doing anything he wanted: taking over any gang in a matter of hours, completely demolishing those same gangs single-handedly, smuggling exciting new weapons into the country (most people believed he already was), assassinating important political figures, you name it. He could've been filthy rich and as corrupt as the rest, but he chose to keep going to school and at least putting up a good show of furthering his education. Most of the other students weren't fooled. He didn't need the classes to know the things _they_ were learning. He just seemed to know everything already.

* * *

It was on a fairly normal day that Hiruma just up and decided to go to a classical literature class he didn't even really remember signing up for. He sat patiently through a boring lecture, thoroughly enjoying the nervous glances the professor sent him—not to mention the auras of downright terror the students surrounding him were giving off. Hiruma couldn't remember actually reading the book the class was 'discussing,' but he knew the storyline well enough. He didn't contribute, mostly because none of the others seemed willing to speak in his presence. Eventually, the end of the supposed class drew near and he began to chuckle evilly.

"Hey, damn class." Every last head, bar one, swiveled to look at him. "Get out. Now!" Even the teacher scrambled to obey when he pulled a semi-automatic out of _nowhere._ He didn't notice that one girl in the very back of the class had yet to move.

Ten minutes later, as he typed out an email to some unfortunate company owner in China, the girl snapped her book shut and sighed before looking around blankly. It was as if she didn't remember getting to where she was. Hiruma looked up and glared at her until she noticed him.

"Huh," she said while stretching her arms out over her head, "well that explains that. And I thought the rumors about you were ridiculous. If I had known you could really clear a room without a second thought, I would've sought you out and made a deal with you or something for a quiet place to read." And the girl walked out without a single glance back at him, book in hand and bag slung over her shoulder.

Hiruma knew who she was, but only vaguely. _Meagan Lewis. _Some strange American girl who'd supposedly chosen a tiny Japanese college when she could've gone to Harvard or Yale in her home country. He didn't have much on her, but only because there wasn't much to have. She was disturbingly normal. She had parents that had planned on paying half her tuition—but ended up paying all of it because she'd chosen such a modest university, her brother was a professional hockey player, and she had an IQ of roughly 212. He had notes about her favorite book (_The Iliad)_, her preferred kind of coffee (French blend, dark, no sugar or cream), her shoe size, the date of her last haircut (updated religiously every five weeks), her medical records, her address, and her permanent record—depressingly blank as it was. There was nothing to make her more than a blip on his radar, which would explain why her presence after he kicked everyone else out went unnoticed.

* * *

Two weeks later, he wasn't disregarding her so much as co-existing. After that day in the literature class, she'd started popping up everywhere he was and just sitting there and reading. He never said anything—why would he? The main reason he didn't want people around was because they were damn noisy and he needed to concentrate. She was quiet, barely even making noise when she turned pages in her many, many books. Sometimes she'd show up three times a day, a different book in her hand each time.

They'd unofficially claimed a large section of the campus library. It was in this spot that she found him immersed in his usual activity—blackmailing by email. She didn't say anything in greeting; she knew she didn't need to. Instead she just set a travel mug by the handgun that was resting innocuously beside his laptop and took up her spot at the other end of the table. They sat in their usual silence for a few minutes before he lifted the cup and spared her a glance.

"I hope you didn't sweeten this," he said flatly, face completely devoid of emotion. He seemed to realize that his demon grin wouldn't do much to intimidate her.

"And ruin a perfectly good cup of coffee?" she said with a snort. "I don't think so."

So he sipped it, waited a moment to get the full effect, smirked, and drank some more. "Maybe there's a reason I tolerate you."

She just rolled her eyes. "Right, like it's really _tolerating me _to let me choose where I sit in a public library."

"Three words to the right person and this whole damn campus is mine," he pointed out lightly, as if he was commenting on the weather or a report for a class.

They dissolved once more into an easy silence. It didn't last long, what with Hiruma being restless and sure that he'd secured his complete control of the campus (along with the whole city) for at least the next week. He stood up casually, worked his way down to her end of the table, and surveyed the towers of books she had with her that day. He didn't need to look at the ones on the left, already knowing that she'd rejected them after a mere paragraph or two. The ones on the right were possible reading material for the next three or four days, the stack being eight or so books tall. He was about to grab the top one when the book in her hands caught his attention. It wouldn't have been all that remarkable, but for the fact that he couldn't read it.

Hiruma, believing that knowledge was power, had made sure that he thoroughly understood and had the full ability to use the English language. So when he looked down at Meagan's book, recognized letters from A to Z, but couldn't figure out what they meant, he got confused. Hiruma Youichi did not like to be confused. He snatched the book and turned it every which way, even flipping it upside down before looking down at Meagan blankly.

"What the hell is this?" he asked, brow furrowing when she smiled the slightest bit.

"It's a copy of _Pinocchio_—in Italian."

"Italian," he echoed, only the tiniest bit of inflection in his voice. "You know Italian." He wasn't asking. He knew she wouldn't hold a book for more than five seconds if she couldn't understand the words inside. "Why didn't I know this?"

She shrugged, smile still tugging at her lips. "You never asked, did you?"

"I don't _ask_," he said with a derisive look. "I find things out on my own."

"Maybe you should start asking people things," she said calmly, already pulling the book away from him and reading again. "I wonder what else you don't know."

The silence fell again, and then he left. He was back the next day.

* * *

"Why do you read so much?" he asked one day, his hands never pausing as they cleaned a gun, seemingly of their own accord.

She thought for a moment—not of the answer, but more to take in the fact that he'd just _asked _her a question. "Characters in books don't have requirements for their readers. They don't expect good grades, polite thoughts, proper posture, or anything. Even being this far from my family can't give me the freedom that books always have."

He just nodded and went back to paying attention to his task. The same thing happened the next day, and the next. He'd ask random questions—rarely ever important or meaningful—and she'd answer. What was her favorite color? Did she ever want to get a job? Why didn't she ever put her hair up? Each question was met with an answer, sometimes simple and sometimes more in-depth—green, but not the bright, obnoxious kind; mint green or dark green. She wanted to be a librarian, if she must work. She'd never been allowed to have her hair long until she graduated high school. She didn't let it grow just to put it up and hide it.

One day, instead of asking her something, he answered all of his own questions without warning.

"I like black a lot, but red is okay too. I'll never need a damn job, and I've never wanted one. Yes, I bleach my hair. I do have a gun license, but I'm not really sure why. It's not like I need it to use them anymore."

She just listened and nodded at the end. Smiling, moving closer to his end of the table—just four seats away after all that time—and kept reading. It was the only acknowledgement he needed and wanted.

* * *

Rumors circulated. He was forcing her to hang out with him. She was another kind of demon. They were plotting to take over the world. He'd finally gone soft and fallen in love. Americans were immune—this one made them both laugh. She had some kind of terminal illness and therefore didn't fear his deadly danger. He was using her for something. Neither of them cared what anyone else said. They were fine just sitting in their library and doing what they did. Until one day, she didn't come. He knew she wouldn't be there; she'd told him, after all. She had an appointment.

Hiruma tried to go about business as usual and barely managed. He slammed his laptop shut, cocked a random gun, and shot a round into the ceiling. If the librarian hadn't left as soon as a nearly tangible black mood began to form around him three hours earlier, she would've shrieked in either terror or outrage—maybe both. The thought brought him no comfort. He was confused again. Why did it matter if Meagan was there or not?

The next day she was back, and neither said anything about the fact that _he_ moved down the table and did away with the three chairs remaining between them. Three students who were unlucky enough to _have _to be in the library that day escaped and immediately started whispering to their friends. More rumors flew, though Hiruma and Meagan had stopped paying attention to the actual details long before.

* * *

Soon they were alternating each day. She would watch him type an email and, though his style was unchangeable, she would make suggestions to give the blackmail a fresh edge. She was also allowed to look at other things on his laptop, like all of his files on the people he needed to keep tabs on (though she never took the time to look through _all_ of them—she just had permission to). She even edited her very own 'portfolio' and added more information weekly. It wasn't long before he had everything anyone could ever want to know about her. In his own words, he could 'write a damn biography if he felt like wasting a day or two.'

In return, he was allowed to read over her shoulder, sometimes even holding the book for her as she rested her head on his shoulder. Slowly, she used _Pinocchio_ to teach him a functional amount of Italian. On the off-chance that other people were around when they actually _spoke_, they used a combination of that, Japanese, and English, just to throw everyone off. A new theory formed that she was some sort of international form of himself, come to help him spread his power even _farther._

* * *

Meagan couldn't say for sure when sharing books turned into sharing coffees. Hiruma wasn't sure when _that_ became 'let's live together.' Nor did either know who originally suggested the idea. Sharing an apartment became sharing a room, a bed. Hours together became days, became weeks, became months, became _every single second_. They barely noticed the passage of time. Eventually, they graduated.

At one point, Hiruma 'acquired' plane tickets and flew them to America so he could introduce himself to her parents. Neither really cared if the older couple approved, which they didn't. They ended up begging Meagan to never come visit again unless she was sure that _he _wouldn't be coming along. Her response was an emotionless 'See you never, then.' Her brother was more accepting, though he did mention that Hiruma 'scared him shitless.' All three of them laughed at that, and Meagan hugged her brother before flying back to what she thought of as 'home.' She never felt more comfortable than when she was lying in bed, reading something (_anything_), and listening to Hiruma type away on his laptop, the same as always.

* * *

_I'll ask for reviews again. I hope you liked it! =)_


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